The Drive Thru Fiasco
by manspirations
Summary: Both friends decide to stop at McDonalds on the way home from school. At the same time.
1. Chapter 1

They should call this harassment. All these fast food places lined up, reminding them of their shitty school lunch. Danny's stomach rumbled as he fiddled with the radio station. Still, Jackson kept driving. Every day. It got them every single damn day. Today they'd do things differently.

"We should-" Danny started but Jackson didn't let him finish. They were better than the average American so, they had to start acting like it. He shot past Taco Bell, Wendy's, Chipotle, Jack and the Box, Subway, Burger King, In and Out Burger, Carl's Jr, KFC, all of them. The cars both behind and in front of them lost to their desires, eventually swiveling into one of the openings. Beside him, Danny huffed, clutching his metaphorical gut.

"Stop it."

"You know we'll work it off. This is torture!" Danny whined, his cheek nearly smushed against the window, as if he could morph himself into Panda Express. Jackson forced himself to remain firm; his face tightened, smoothing away all the amusement begging to show. Up ahead, the holy grail of restaurants popped into view. Gold arches. French fry smell from a mile away. Oh god, he was cracking. Jackson gripped his hand tight to the ribbed steering wheel.

"Fuck it." He swiveled before it was too late, joining the line of other losers.

* * *

"But bro! How could she do this to me? Isaac? AGAIN?!" Scott threw his head back against the seat dramatically and Stiles winced at the imprint it'd leave in the seat. His baby was a precious jewel; they should treat him as such. "Life sucks." The poor guy, still hung up on Allison. They had this conversation many times. Still, he had to play his best friend role.

"Don't worry about their failures. You got your own girl. Or have you forgotten?" He glanced at Scott, giving him the get-it-together look. Scott pounded his head against the headrest again at the mention of Kira. Stiles saw the rant on his lips before he opened them. Another rant was the last thing he wanted. "You know I'm here for you and all but, hell no." Stiles accentuated the word by whipping his head around wildly. "It's freaking Friday. I refuse to let you wallow in sad person tears and Real World marathons. You. Me. My house. A shit ton of McDonalds. And absolutely no mention of those two backstabbing douche faces. Got it?" He took his eyes off the road for one minute to pivot his whole body towards his best friend. Scott pouted, his entire face basically falling to the floorboard. Stiles reached over, pinching those puffy cheeks and turned that frown right-side up. The more Scott resisted, the harder he pulled.

"Ok. Ok. Stop!" Scott chuckled, pinching Stiles's skin in retaliation. Gladly, Stiles released, mostly so he could avoid another car collision. Carefully, he turned into the entrance. The sign welcomed their existence. "You try the McRib yet? Isaac says-" Scott paused, his mind floating back to Isaac and Allison.

Stiles rolled his eyes. Isaac this. Isaac that. They should threesome it out and move on. "No, I haven't tried the McRib and neither will you. I'm thinking more of the Fish..." The car in front of them stopped his thought. "Well, look at what we got here."

"What? Is it Allison?" Scott whipped his head around, searching for her blue compact Prius. "Oh. It's just Jackson. So what?" Scott glared at the sleek Porsche inching closer to the brightly-colored menu.

"So what?" Stiles smirked deviously, his smile portraying all of the sick twisted pranks swirling through his head. "This is the single best thing to happen today. Watch and learn." He yanked his phone from his pocket.

* * *

Two cars away from the monitor, both of their phones vibrated. Curious, they glanced at one another, down at their phones, and grabbed them hesitantly.

**How would coach feel with his star players eating McDonalds? tsk tsk**

Fucking Stilinski, he should have known. Jackson rotated to find Stiles waving wildly at them. Danny followed his gaze, "God, he's so weird," he commented before shifting back around and dropping his phone back into his lap. Unlike Danny, he never could resists a good hate session with Stiles. They always rubbed together in the worst ways.

_At least he would feel something. Benchwarmers get nothing._ He shot off quickly, ignoring Danny's mild grin. They moved forward one car worth when Stiles texted him back.

**Yeah cause we looove spit flying at our faces.**

_I dont want to knw what shit you get up to_

**But don't you tho. why else would u still b textin me?**

Dammit. He raised a valid point; Jackson stashed his phone in the center console's hidden compartment. He ignored the incessant vibration until curiosity influenced his actions. Danny scoffed as he ripped open the armrest to snatch up his phone. He'd only read them, not respond.

**Ah Ha!**

**You want all up in this stilinski koolaid.**

**It's ok to want us Jackson.**

**We're hot shit.**

**Well, I am. Scotty is sad shit. very very sad warm shit**

He stopped reading them to order food, a Grilled Chicken Clubhouse and fries for Danny and a Filet-O-Fish meal for him, with a side salad. "Drive around for your total." The unenthusiastic girl droned over the speaker, dismissing them. Moving maybe a few inches, he shifted back to his phone.

**shit so sad its sobbing.**

_eww. stop texting me._

**Whats the magic word?**

_If you don't stop texting me I will ram that shit jeep and sue you for all your sad life is worth?_

**Rude but nope. 1220 calories.**

_How the hell is that the magic word?_

**Thats what you and danny boy are bout to ingest. have fun with explosive diarrhea.**

Jackson actually guffawed a laugh at that, handing his card over to the first window girl. She, much cheerful than the other girl, smiled blindly at them. Before he could process the words, he told her, "I got the car behind us too." Both she, Danny, and his brain questioned his sanity as she swiped for Stiles and Scott's meal as well. Danny tracked him with one eye arched over in a confused yet amused speculation. "Shut up." He grumbled, tossing the heated paper bags into Danny's lap. They drove off without a word spoken between them. Halfway to the house, his phone celebrated an incoming call. Jackson didn't even glance at it, already knowing Stiles waited on the other end.

"Yes, Stilinski?" He said, tucking the phone in between his ear. Danny side-glanced him from behind his Grilled Chicken Club.

"Fuck you. Don't think you're better than me. You are not better than me. I can afford my own goddamn food, Jackson." Stiles rumbled in his ear. Most of the words jumbled together because of the mouthful of fries in his mouth. Jackson could picture that thing in his brain, stretched to the brim, forcing more and more inside. He almost grinned at the image before Danny's presence brought him back to their conversation. Stiles shouted his name, "Jackson. Hellooo. Don't try to ignore me. I can hear your smug face breathing. I can buy my own food."

Before he could talk, Danny snatched the phone to toggle on speakerphone. Without having a real reason to be irritated by Danny's nosiness, he channeled his aggravation into Stiles. "Your meal begs to differ. It's ok. Nobody blames you for being poor."

"Fuck you, asshole." The gears began to turn in Stiles's brain and he could hear Scott sighing in the background. "Tomorrow night. 8pm. Meet me at the diner. You can get whatever your spoiled ass wants and I'll buy it."

"Is that a challenge, Stilinski?" He smirked, loving to ruffle Stiles's feathers.

"It's whatever you want it to be, Whittemore." Stiles griped through his clenched jaw.

"Make it the Steakhouse and I'll be there."

"Fine."

"Fine." He mimicked Stiles's voice, purposefully raising his voice in pitch.

"Ugh. Don't be late." Stiles ended the call, leaving them staring at his phone. Jackson pulled into Danny's driveway, minutes later, still contemplating what he agreed too. Danny, barely controlling his twisted smile, glanced between him and his phone, as if it represented Stiles's person.

"Did you just…fight your way into a date with Stiles?"

Jackson scowled at the idea. "No." Then, he thought about it: the low lighting of the fancy Steakhouse, the dinner for two designed menus, and the larger deserts. "Dammit." He cursed under his breath, but Danny heard him anyway. His own best friend laughed at his misfortune; his whole body quaked with uncontrollable merriment. Jackson didn't wait around to watch the show. He grabbed his bags and stormed out the car. Oddly, he was more pissed about Danny's teasing than spending an entire dinner bickering with Stiles Stilinski. At least, he found entertainment in the latter.

Danny followed behind him wheezing for breath, "Ehh, you could do worst. You have done worst." He didn't have to mention the girl in mind, his rebound after Lydia. "I hear he likes red," he said, winking as he unlocked the front door.

"Fuck off." He pushed through the door, masking his tiny smile until he followed Danny upstairs to his room.

Twenty-eight hours later, when Jackson pulled into the parking lot, Stiles gave him a slow once over. He smirked, pushing off the Jeep with his hands buried in the pocket of his ironed khakis. Jackson, shameless, stole a perusal of his own, noting how Stilinski's clothes actually fit his body. At the front door, Stiles opened it for him, gesturing dramatically for him to go inside. Once inside, they waited for the maître to seat them. With nothing better to do, Stiles blatantly checked him out in the low lighting. "Red. I like it." Stiles complimented his button down, flicking the fabric peeking out from under his blazer. The rough balls of his knuckles scraped Jackson's jaw and suppressed a groan.

"Fuck off. It's maroon."

Stiles chuckled. Finally, the maître led them to a table. In the furthest corner. Surrounded by Jasmine Vanilla scented candles. Away from direct view of the other guests. Fuck his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Now that low lighting and the cloying scent of cow surrounded them, Stiles finally saw this night for what it was._ Utter Bullshit._ He couldn't believe Jackson Whittemore and his ultra tight jeans was his first date ever. And, no, he did _not_ appreciate those things, though he'd probably admit to having some feeling about his"maroon" button down. A color like that had a guy wondering about skin and possibly a set of satin sheets.

_Nope._ Stiles shuddered, ridding himself of all indecent thoughts about one Jackson Whittemore. He wasn't going to survive this night if he didn't.

Nosy eyes followed them as the maître led them along a brick wall, passing every table with at least two of them empty. He huffed once their destination popped into view. Their square, cloth-covered table was situated in the back corner, surrounded by walls on two sides. From here, he and Jackson could see many of the other tables, though the other couldn't say the same of them. Ultimately, Stiles didn't know whether to strangle their host or kiss him fat on the cheek. He did neither. Instead, he finished the final steps to their evening paradise right as Jackson snagged the good chair, the one facing the other tables, leaving him with the shitty one facing only the wall and his unfortunate dinner partner. Stiles sneered at Jackson's smug smirk as he slumped down in his chair.

In his haste, his elbow careened into one of the table's many vanilla-scented candles. He fumbled to steady the small glass before it teetered over the edge, much to the pained horror of the host and the amusement of his date, who was barely stifling his laugh behind a fist.

Stiles kicked him under the table, already regretting this evening. Eventually, the host captured their attention with talks of menus and specials. All to soon, he was sauntering off to the waiting party of two, leaving them alone.

Sure, the last time they interacted, Stiles felt comfortable in their back and forth, maybe even relished in the easy bickering. That was a few days ago when two cars and one hundred feet of space separated , he didn't think a foot separated them. From here, Stiles could spot the pimple Jackson smothered on his left cheek—all pink and prickly. He stopped himself from staring by toying with the warm, smooth edges of the candle that once wasn't. His pulse jittered as he attempted to look everywhere but his dinner partner.

The one thing this place did well was set the mood, but unfortunately for them, he wanted their mood certifiably unset. A chandelier draped down in the middle of the restaurant, serving as the main source of lighting. Every other surface knew only a candle's touch; there were seven on their table alone. (Six mini ones surrounding the ultimate candle, a red candelabra.) Together, they illuminated the bridge of freckles splattered over Jackson's nose. For the record, he only knew that because he spotted them in the mirror mounted on the wall next to their table.

Slowly, his attention drifted to the menu and the prices marked next to the unreadable dinner specials. Even the font screamed expensive. Stiles gaped at the double-digits even as Jackson winked at him, not even bothering to open his menu. Stiles hated him. Hated him.

"Good evening, fellas," a raspy grumble snapped them out of their glaring war. The woman's eyes roamed over Jackson before she focused on her job. Clearing her throat, she uttered, "Can we start you off with drinks? Our wine of the evening is a _2010 Cabernet Sauvignon_, a rich red wine, at thirty dollars glass. We also have a-"

"-The _Cabernet_ sounds perfect, Anna," Jackson interrupted, flashing her his charismatic, pretty-boy smile. Stiles never understood. The brute did what any literate human being would do—read her name tag—and still received a flirty smile in return. He tried (and failed) to kick him under the table again as she poured two glasses of something dark and vile. She didn't even card. Cougar. Stiles dry heaved into his water glass.

As Jackson accepted his glass, she brushed their fingers together. "If that's all, I'll give you and your friend a chance to peruse our menu. I recommend the Porterhouse. Our cut is spectacular," she winked. He sat there, stunned at their flirtatious cackling. Every time she giggled, Jackson peeked up at him with the smile of Lucifer capturing his face, but he didn't need grown waitresses flinging themselves at him. He was hot stuff. Looking over the menu, Stiles grinned and reached over and laid a palm over Jackson's hand. "Aww, look babe-" he sung, rubbing his thumb over the silk back of his hand. "We should get the Porterhouse for two, but maybe without the roasted potatoes. I know how gassy you get around starch."

Miss Cougar took three massive steps back, which wasn't nearly as satisfying as Jackson's blanched squint. Stiles had to fight his smile and his heartbeat. He was caressing Jackson's hand, afterall. Jackson, much too stunned for syllables, kept quiet the entire time Miss Perky wrote down their orders, grabbed their menus, and shuffled to tables that actually needed service. The second she turned the corner, Stiles yanked back his hand, "What the hell? You can't just go ordering wine. My dad's the sheriff. Our history teacher is right over there!"

"Please," Jackson rolled his eyes, "She's too busy eye-fucking the mailman to worry about you."

"The mailman?" he pivoted around for a good look at her table. Sure enough, he caught her sitting next to the same man who delivered his prospective college packets, not four days ago. They both watched her bat her eyelashes, a harmless act until her right hand descended under the table. Seconds later, the mailman jolted, a smarmy, devious smirk curling over his meaty cheeks. Stiles's nose turned up in disgust as the man's smile grew deeper and wider and..."Oh god. My eyes! He's so old, though."

Jackson snorted. "So is her vagina," he leaned back in his chair, wholly unaffected by the imagery no doubt whirling through both their imagination. His and Jackson's chuckles meshed for several moments; then, he remembered they weren't meant to enjoy this. He committed Jackson's smile to memory just as it diminished. Without a conversation starter, they sat there, desperately avoiding eye contact. Randomly after Stiles spent minutes counting the dripping candle wax, Jackson snorted. "We're not the only fucked up people here. That man over there-" Jackson said, cocking his head to the side. "-could be the richest bitch alive and his date would still off herself."

Stiles scanned the room, losing all meaning of subtlety. He spotted them almost immediately, sitting closer to the front door. At first glance, he thought their date looked innocent, cute even—two people, dressed to impress. Then, slowly, he noticed the cracks in their portrait as her face twisted in a pained, tight-lipped smile, her fork stabbing uneaten vegetables.

"What's he saying?" Stiles demanded to know, but Jackson scoffed as if he'd rather catapult into a pool of acid than do anything Stiles requested. "Oh come on," he pouted. "What's the point of ultra-super-sonic hearing if you won't use it for the greater good?"

Jackson cocked one of his absurdly-sculpted eyebrows, "That's supposed to be you?"

"I'm the greatest good you'll ever have," he winked, wishing he could blame the two sips of wine he suffered through. His cheeks burned from the innuendo, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he focused on coaxing Jackson with a charismatic smolder of his own. He waited until Jackson's shoulders slumped. "Yes-I knew you loved me!"

"Don't get too happy," Jackson snapped, but his head angled towards the couple's table. Stiles rapped his fingers on the table, anticipating the greatness headed his way. Finally, Jackson choked on a laugh as he channeled his best rich, ass-hat impression. Nasally, he mimicked the man. _"And, I told the dentist, like hell I'd be charged for that. I went in for a routine cleaning and he's trying to bill me for a goddamn root canal, a diagnostic, and three fillings?! Pathetic- it's like highway robbery these days."_

Stiles couldn't take it. All at once, laughter rippled over his body; parts that weren't even supposed to tremble quivered as he threw his head against the seat. Jackson judged him for a second until he started chuckling right along with him. Several neighboring patrons shot them glares of askance, forcing Stiles to cup his mouth. That only diminished his eruption to an audible wheeze. "Oh man," he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "Hands down—the funniest thing I've seen all week."

"Glad I could provide," Jackson's dry tone still dripped with amusement. If they spent their entire night being assholes, he'd deem it hours well spent. After he collected his breath, he demanded Jackson eavesdrop on another table. This time, Jackson protested for only a few seconds before his ear fell over the room.

With Jackson's focus elsewhere, Stiles took the opportunity to study him, really study him. Stiles squinted, trying his hardest to figure out why Jackson looked different tonight. He didn't think it was just the red shirt, though that helped immensely. Maybe, the almost stubble outlining his jaw or his eyes. His eyes...Stiles decided they still shone that _awful,_ ridiculously clear blue, but tonight, they softened at the edges, devoid of their usual anger and irritation. Any idiot could recognize Jackson's hotness, but his mind flashed the word 'beautiful' more than once.

Thankfully, nature righted itself as Jackson reared back, pure disgust distorting his relaxed expression. The chair screeched as Jackson shoved away from the table. "Let's go," he grunted. Jackson had stalked across the restaurant by the time his brain caught up. Scrambling, Stiles dropped two twenties and one ten on the table and shuffled around the tables to catch up. Neither the host nor the server stopped him as he threw himself out the door. "What the hell was that?" Stiles barked when he reached their cars.

"The Chef was talking about his genital warts treatment," Jackson shrugged, leaning against the Porsche's driver door.

"So?"

"So?! What kind of-" Jackson paused at the crack of his own voice. Inhaling deeply, he continued, "You'd eat something made by a guy with dick warts? Freak."

"It's called washing your hands. Fine, I pick the next place," he brushed past him to reach his baby. Before he could protest, Stiles interrupted him. "Just get in your damn Barbie car. We'll drop yours off and take mine." Stiles didn't give him a chance to argue. He hopped in the Jeep, knowing Jackson would follow him. Sure enough, Jackson swerved in front of him at the first red light and curved right in the direction towards his house.

* * *

Jackson expected the Jeep to crumple under his weight instantly. Somehow, the seat only jiggled, a jovial 'welcome to the end of your life' bounce. As Stiles backed out of his driveway, Jackson stripped away his button down, sighing when the warm air soothed cold on his sweaty undershirt. Whatever odd dynamic they found at the Steakhouse dissipated in the presence of penis lumps and bitter wine. The silent, uncomfortable air weighed heavy on his chest, making him wished he'd locked himself inside his room.

He thought of texting Danny, but his prying would ultimately annoy him more than entertain him. Already, he had five messages waiting unread from him. To be honest, he was surprised Danny didn't just show up at the restaurant with Lydia in tow. With no one to talk to and Stiles ignoring him, he decided to lean back, close his eyes, and wait for the Jeep to stop throttling him. He found it relatively easy, considering he listened to Stiles's soft hum reverberate over the thud of tires on concrete. He couldn't tell exactly how long they'd driven until fluorescent white seeped over his eyelids.

_Sonic Drive In._ Jackson rolled his eyes, even as his stomach growled. Leave it to Stiles to drive outside county territory for food they could have gotten five minutes from his house. The irony of eating fast food didn't escape him.

_"Hey, Welcome to Sonic. What can I get you?"_ The voice rang as distinctly male this time, one who was equally irritated as the girl who took his and Danny's order the other day. Stiles answered right off the back, leaning halfway out the window to order a large tater tot, popcorn chicken, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a Oreo Mint Milkshake. How Stiles possibly kept his frame and still scarfed down two meals worth of lard and salt was beyond Jackson. He ordered and then they waited for food, nothing but awkward silence filling the car. Once two heavy bags dropped in his lap, they zoomed out the lot.

Jackson searched for his fries, which Stiles jacked two the second he pulled them from the bag. To stop the thieving, Jackson forced the massive container of tater tots between Stiles's legs, ignoring the brief brush of his thigh.

This far out of town, they ran into one other car that veered right after a few miles. Then, it was only them cruising on this backwoods road, breathing in the night air. Stiles took a hard left, directly onto a grassy field, no gravel in sight.

Jackson scoffed, looking over at Stiles like he'd finally lost what brain cells he had left. He kept his comments to himself though. As long as he had food, they could drive to Maine for all he cared. As Stiles cut through the jungle of tall grass and ticks, Jackson started on his grilled chicken sandwich.

After some time, Stiles actually decided to clue him in. "They don't patrol out here," he explained, stopping when the grass grew too thick to continue. Crickets and the occasional chirp filtered through the open windows as they sat in the desolate dark munching. He found himself mourning their easy conversation at the Steakhouse, at least then they weren't waiting for the other to speak. Jackson snuck glimpses at him, eyeing Stiles throw his head back at the first taste of his milkshake, moaning like he never experienced oreos, milk, and ice cream before. Jackson gulped in time with Stiles, all of his focus on the dip of his neck. When Stiles caught him staring, he glared away, but not before catching his mellow smirk. He thought Stiles would make a big deal about it, but he smoothed over it. "God-can you believe Ms. Gabriels? I had hope for her," Stiles said, chuckling to himself and rummaging for his popcorn chicken.

Jackson snorted Pepsi back into his straw, "You think about Gabriels?"

"F off," Stiles threw a tot at his face and he ducked, letting it fly out the window. "Not in a pervy way, but a 'she-should-get-laid-so-I-can-graduate-with-a-4.0' kind of way."

"After tonight, grade point averages will be the last thing on her mind," he teased, making Stiles choke on his last tot. The image of Ms. Gabriel being bent over his desk burned Jackson's retinas, but when he focused on Stiles's freak out, he didn't give into his own.

"Gahh, I hate you so much!"

"Feelings mutual," he scoffed back, though neither of them sounded very convincing. The silence that followed resembled something akin to the Steakhouse. He enjoyed the grease, the darkness, and the stillness he rarely witnessed when Stiles came around. Jackson kicked his legs on the dashboard and stared out the window, drink in hand. His ears picked up a stream not too far away; the trickle of water meshed with the croaking crickets, hidden around them. Next to him, Stiles stretched his legs out, rubbing his growing food baby.

When they'd thrown their trash to the back, Stiles turned to him. "Hey," he paused, "You gonna be a bitch if I do something?"

Jackson stilled, "Depends. You gonna call me a bitch again?"

Stiles snorted, his frown relaxing back into his comatose smirk. Despite giving him permission to do heaven-knows-what, Stiles continued to linger on the driver's side, biting the inside of his lip. The motion stole his attention and that was before Stiles leaning in. Sure, kissing Stiles crossed his mind, once or twice, but never did he expect it to happen. He gripped the scratchy seat-belt as if it would stop his stomach from doing that **thing.**

Stiles's gaze definitely fell from his eyes, as he changed course and dropped to the mat beneath Jackson's elevated legs. Seconds later, he resurfaced with a small Ziploc bag, ruining the moment, or almost moment.

"Seriously?" Jackson snatched the bag of finely rolled joints from Stiles's hands; they wiggled between his fingers as he shook the bag.

Stiles stopped digging in pockets when he noticed them starting to unravel. "Hey, careful—I rolled those!" he yanked them back. "I don't have to...if that's not your thing or..." His voice trailed off and normally, Jackson would quip back. Maybe, tease his handiwork or call him a juvenile delinquent. This time, with his eyes shifting between the bag and the dashboard, he didn't have an answer for him. How could he when he'd never tried it before? So, in a desperate attempt to mask the burn of humiliation, he scoffed indifferently, which Stiles took as his go ahead.

Stiles's fingers worked swiftly to do...whatever it was that pot smokers do. He slid the joint into his mouth and cupped his palm over the flame. Jackson watched, mesmerized; he always wondered why people did that, not that he'd ever ask Stiles, of all people. Stiles must have felt him looking, because he tossed him a squinted expression.

He did his best to feign disinterest: rolling his eyes, quirking a brow, slumping lower in his seat. None of it convinced Stiles, who gave him that dumb wink while he lifted the joint to his saliva-slicked lips. His adam's apple dipped low at his effortless inhale, then he smiled around exhaled loops. _Showoff._ (The whole thing was hotter than it should be.) Jackson felt the pull of his body taking notice, filling in places he didn't want Stiles knowing. Grunting, he waved away the smoke pillowing around the Jeep.

"You want in?" Stiles held the joint in the V of his fingers. The burning embers flickered as he tried to come up with an answer. After a few seconds, Stiles caught on, cocking his head to the side and scrutinizing his pinched expression. "You've never done this before. Have you?" he asked around another hit. When smoke spilled out, so did a hearty laugh. "God, so lame," Stiles laughed so hard, he clutched his stomach, barely holding himself up.

Jackson scowled, eyes narrowing to thin, vibrant blue slits. He could feel the spark of anger shooting though his veins, spreading through his body like branches. He threw open the door, but Stiles clasped a hand over his wrist before he could move an inch.

"Stop being a baby," Stiles muttered, leaning over him to force the door shut. He could smell the stench of the weed on Stiles's skin; scent alone, he might have gagged, but mixed with the natural woodsy smell of Stiles, Jackson sighed, sniffing despite himself. "It's cute," Stiles murmured, pushing his back against the chair. "Lame. But cute. I'm not pressuring you into-"

Catching him off guard, Jackson grabbed the joint from his mouth to stop his look of pity. People didn't pity him; they envied him. "I'm not lame," he grumbled, turning the thing in his hands. They both watched him run his hand over it, including the part moistened by Stiles's lips. If someone asked him, he couldn't explain why he decided to do what he did next. Careful not to set the Jeep aflame, he threw himself over the center, landing on Stiles's lap. If this was any vehicle besides the shitty death metal, he would recline the chair, but it wasn't so he had settled for pushing the door open. The angle was awkward until he settled one knee between Stiles and the seat belt and hung the other out the door, rearranging so that his lap was parallel to Stiles's.

The herbs must have already started kidnap Stiles and his giant brain because he didn't push him off. Instead, his rough palms slid under Jackson's undershirt; though they were hot, nearly sweaty, they raised bumps on his skin. Stiles tilted his head up, blinking at him, half-dumbfounded, but also interested, very very interested. Jackson glanced down at their matching boners.

"You gonna do it or what?" Stiles challenged him confidently with a smirk painted on his face. He might sound convincing, but Jackson felt the subtle tremor of his hands. Now, that was the Stilinski he could handle, all self-conscious in his presence. Focusing on Stiles's glazed grimace, his slack mouth, Jackson brought the blunt to his lips. Hell, he didn't even know how this stuff affected werewolves, but that didn't stop him from imitating the movies he and Danny used to watch.

He expected it to burn, or at least a harsh tickle. Compared to some of the shots he'd forced into his system, the sweet heat spreading through his lungs soothed him. His almost didn't exhale, until it scratched against his throat. He exhaled on a cough, just waiting for the laugh he knew was to come, but Stiles didn't laugh or cackle. Instead, he dug his nails into the curve of his waist and whispered, "Good?"

Jackson nodded, dumbly, losing whatever fight was left in him once he spied Stiles's proud turn of lips. Slowly, he cracked a smile. This time, when he inhaled, he felt his hand cup Stiles's jaw, his thumb gliding over Stiles's bottom lip. The heat of Stiles's breath ghosted over his hand as he leans forward, sealing his mouth over Stiles's, not an inch between them. This wasn't a kiss—but the weight of Stiles's lips under his made him clutch tighter to the seat.

Together, they breathed, him out and Stiles in. Layers of warmth cloaked over them, his face flushed from the almost summer heat, the haze of the smoke, and from Stiles, whose hands ventured deeper below the waistline of his jeans.

"Still lame?" Jackson couldn't help but tease him, if only to swipe that smug grin off his face. Stiles's lopsided grimace probably affected him more than whatever herbs were now rumbling in his system. It didn't stop him for taking another pull, especially when he felt Stiles's arousal spike as a result. When Stiles arched forward, Jackson figured he was reaching for the joint, but Stiles bypassed it completely, snagging him around the neck and forcing him down.

Whether retort he prepared evaporated as Stiles kissed him, oddly tentative for someone who even walked loudly. After the first barest of presses, Stiles paused, searching for his reaction. Problem was, Jackson considered himself way too sober to justify this in the morning and Stiles was clearly not. Wasn't there something about consent happening right now? He probably should have paid attention in Sex Ed freshman year, instead of faking bathroom breaks with Lydia. Stiles blinked up at him, nibbling on the edges of his bottom lip—_dammit_, Jackson groaned. His shy, fidgeting wasn't helping the situation. At all.

Feeling the burn from the ebbing end of the joint, Jackson sent a fuck it all to hell. He crushed the last little nub between his finger, destroying the last of his logic and the space between them with it. Just as Stiles rushed forward, Jackson ducked back, teasing him again. He cackled at Stiles's tiny pout, then apologized by actually giving him what he wanted (what they probably both wanted).

Stiles tasted like oreos, ashes, and cheese, three things that shouldn't ever mix and yet, he still found himself kissing back when Stiles swept too much tongue into his mouth, deepening a kiss that was far too sloppy and wet. Any other person and Jackson would've forced them away and them the way he liked it. But, he liked Stiles's inexperience, liked that he didn't have to try so hard to be the best because he was already the best. Before he could stop it, a soft moan slipped from him that reverberated between them. He worked the buttons on Stiles's shirt, knowing the if he paid more attention to this than the reason he was shamelessly grinding down against Stiles Stilinski, his brain would actually let him enjoy this. He finally got the last one undone and forced the shirt back, reveling nothing but dotted skin and...way more chest hair than he expected. For the first time ever, Stiles actually dressed like a normal human being and forgone his god-awful layers. He ran his palms down over his chest to the slightly defined ridges of an actual six pack.

"Don't look so surprised," Stiles grumbled, yanking him back down by the balls of his shirt that landed on the floor seconds later.

_"Fuck,"_ he cursed when Stiles's palms slid beneath his jeans, palming his ass. Jackson didn't even know that was physically possible with how long it took him to get them on. His lips, puckered and slick, looked so inviting that Jackson stopped rocking just to bring their lips together.

Thanks to the death trap, all they could do was rut against each other until the exhilaration build too high, too fast. Jackson tried to hold on; he wasn't ready to face reality, or anything that wasn't Stiles. His body was trembling, twitching like he was the one who hadn't felt another person's body against his before. His breath grew heavy, running ragged in time with Stiles's pants. All it took was for Stiles to lick a stripe down his neck and his muscles tightened for a prolonged moment, then he was exploding. Stiles followed right after him, a string of profanities on his tongue.

* * *

Jackson rolled off him when their skin began to stick together. Stiles, shielding a hand over his eyes, was too busy sucking in air to care. A part of him—the part not still clouded from the haze—couldn't believe he'd just hooked up with Jackson Whittemore. The other half devised a plan to shout it to the world, a giant 'fuck you' to everyone who ever doubted his attraction. He smirked at the wet specks drying on his roof as he inhaled slowly. Once he could form words, he muttered, "Damn, we could've been doing this for years."

He felt Jackson peek at him, "Doing what exactly?"

"I don't know." His words slurred, weighing heavier in his throat. "Chilling out, blazing...hooking up." They both halted at his last words, surprised he actually found the confidence to say it. Jackson didn't respond right away, tugging at his nervous strings, again. After minutes of silence, Stiles forced himself to flip over, where he found two squinted eyes searing over his face. Instead of turning away, Stiles stared back, allowing his gaze to roam from the sheen of sweat pulling at his forehead to the baby hairs growing above his waistline. There was a joke about waxing somewhere up there.

Eventually, they both snapped out of it, Jackson shifting back to look at the ceiling. "Yeah well, you were a dweeb for most of those years so..."

"And now?" Stiles didn't know why something so trivial, like Jackson's opinion of him, mattered so much. His eyes drooped while waiting for the answer.

* * *

_Now._ Jackson didn't even want to think about the changes between them. He blinked up at the Jeep's stained roof for longer than he wanted to admit. After awhile, he busied his hands by trying to find his pants. He worked them halfway on before losing momentum and falling back. Pivoting back to Stiles, he noticed his rapidly fluttering eyes, threatening to close any second. To stop himself from looking at him again, all debauched and exposed, Jackson scoffed.

"Don't you have a curfew or something?" he asked, shifting to look out his window. Stiles responded with something other than words, or even syllables. He glanced around them, at the nothingness. "What if-"

Stiles interrupted him with, "Shuddup 'n sleep." Then, Jackson lost him to the land of dreams, snoring right from the gate. Jackson rolled his eyes with the reminder to work on Stilinski's stamina. Having nothing better to do, he messed around on his phone, checking ESPN and eating Stiles's cold Grilled Cheese until his phone grew too heavy to hold. Eventually, he followed right behind him.

* * *

Stiles woke up feeling twelve levels of disoriented, the taste of milk, ashes, and rats' ass rotting beneath his tongue. He fumbled for Scott's water bottle he saw floating in the back, several days ago. After long pulls, he scowled at the sordid state of his Jeep: food wrappers stuffed under mats, clothes cloaking every physical surface. The stickiness on his skin didn't help either. Tucking himself back in, he eyed the smooth rise and fall of Jackson's chest.

_Yep, _he hit that so hard, the Boxing Hall of Fame would be begging him to be an inductee. In fact, he'd totally high-five himself if they weren't sitting in the middle of a field during broad daylight. He scrounged enough energy to shut the door and start the car.

The morning after panic didn't settle in until Jackson stirred, right when they hit the official Beacon Hills county line. Questions whipped through his head. He wondered if Jackson remembered, too. Stiles didn't want to think about if he didn't. Or if he did, but regretted every second and violently? They barely smoked the whole thing, not enough of a high to lose time, at least. His hands tightened over the wheel as he snuck glimpses of his thankfully still form.

Out of nowhere, Jackson smacked him on the thigh. "Calm the fuck down," he grunted. "You're giving me a headache." He seemed normal. Well, normal for an agitated, rude asshole with the body and temper of a Greek god. Stiles relaxed, his thoughts now focusing on if and when Jackson would remove his hand. He never did.

Eventually, they started encountering more cars, meaning Jackson had to fix himself if they wanted to escape every cop in the district, on duty or not. "Yo," he played it cool, pinching his hand. "Unless you want soccer moms skeeving on you, you should probably cover up."

So dramatic, Jackson huffed as if the world was created to screw him. Moving lethargically, he worked to fasten his pants, not even bothering to pick up his shirt. "They can look all they want."

"Look; don't touch? You're such a cliche," he laughed as they rolled up to the Whittemore House.

Jackson sneered at him, all the usual anger, but lacking real intent. "And you're such a loser," he gritted. Stiles shook his head, almost fondly while it took Jackson moments to realize they were outside his house (or that the car had even stopped.) When he did, he fought the seat belt with his left hand while his right grabbed his two shirt, lying crumpled on the floor. Outside of his own life experiences, he'd never seen so much struggle in his life; Stiles ate it up. Finally, Jackson managed to slide down from the Jeep, his tiny wince being the only evidence of last night. Stiles didn't smile at that. He didn't. Halfway to slamming the door, Jackson cleared his throat, "Danny usually has jazz band afterschool."

"Ok. And?" Stiles gestured for him to continue.

"And, you know where I live if you ever want to...chill."

He swallowed, squirming where Jackson's darkened gaze slick over his skin; he wasn't above parking this car right now and Jackson knew it. An amused smirk stretched over his face, "Later Stilinski." He finished his slam and all Still could see was back muscles, rippling as he half-jogged, half walked up the steps. Of course, that was the moment words sputtered from his lips.

"I have a house too, asshole!"

Jackson flipped him off as he closed the front door behind him. After staring at the house for seconds too long, Stiles commenced the trail home. He wasn't sure what he'd started, but he was damn gonna enjoy it.

* * *

Inside the house, Jackson collapsed on his mother's white couch. Feet kicked up on the white leather, he allowed himself one chuckle before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
